Shades of Grey
by lostsoul512
Summary: Somewhere in the shades of grey lies Thassarian and Koltira, not quite wrong but certainly not right, forsaken by death and unwanted by life.


**A/N: Hello, my lovelies. Here is my first Thass/Koltira story, which sort of sprung into my mind out of nowhere and demanded to be written. **

**Disclaimer: Blizzard owns all, including my soul. **

**Warnings: Language, smut, verrrrrrry minor blood-play. Just to cover my bases in case. **

**...**

They exist in all the shades of grey.

In the space between right and wrong, between light and dark, between redemption and condemnation.

They exist in all the shades of grey, forsaking death but unwanted by life. They are trying trying _trying_ to step out of the darkness, but not too far, because the Light burns.

Tirion is a Paladin and Paladins are whitewhitewhite, but that's interesting because Arthas was a Paladin too, wasn't he, but he doesn't want to think about Arthas right now. Tirion is a Paladin, and he saved them, freed them from the darkness that bound them into the service of the Lich King. He freed them, showed them the Light, and it burned, but then again so did finding out that Arthas didn't give a _shit_ about them.

Tirion freed them, at Light's Hope, but they werent really free, not really, because they were still fucking _dead_, and not even Tirion could free them from that. The Death Knights could do as they pleased, and so they did, some staying in Acherus and some returning home.

Thassarian couldn't go home, not really, because his home had been destroyed, but he doesn't want to think about that right now.

Instead, he goes to Stormwind. Stormwind is the central hub of the Alliance, and the Alliance is whitewhitewhite, at least they think they are, because they're so righteous and just. He supposes that makes the Horde black, but Thassarian can't help but think that if you asked any of them, they would probably say they were red.

More than likely, they're both just shades of grey.

Anyway, sometimes Thassarian goes back to Acherus because that's the only place he really belongs. Everything there is grey, the cold walls and the stone floors and the shadows creeping in every corner.

Sometimes, Koltira goes back to Acherus too, and in those moments, they exist only in the space between their lips, between their bodies pressed together, between their shared breaths.

Koltira is the most beautiful thing Thassarian has ever seen. Pale skin, long silvery hair, blaring blue eyes. Elongated ears and slender fingers that explore every inch of his body, tracing muscles and scars. Thassarian traces Koltira's scars too, his fingertips lingering at the one stretching across his chest, the one that Thassarian put there, the one that killed the elf and bound him to this life of black.

Thassarian tries not to think about that now, when Koltira is laying pressed against him, and his eyes are closed even though Death Knights don't really need to sleep. His hands are toying with strands of the elf's long hair, and he is trying to match their breathing, which is interesting because Death Knights don't really need to breathe, but they do it out of habit, or maybe because none of them really want to face the fact that they're fucking _dead_.

Of course, trying not to think about it only makes him think about it, isn't that always the way it goes, and so when he closes his own eyes he can see Silvermoon against the horizon. He can feel his armor weighing him down, feel the swords in his hands thirsting for blood. He can't smell the death in the air, maybe because he is used to it now, but he can sense the impatience in the skeletons and necromancers.

Arthas is at the front, of course, straddling Invincible and looking, well, invincible. Arthas is blackblackblack, black armor encasing his body, black soul hidden underneath. He is clutching to the cursed sword Frostmourne like it's all that's keeping him alive. Thinking on it, it probably is.

The plan is simple. Go in, kill everyone in their way, because they're the Scourge and that's what they do. Thassarian can't help but think that this isn't what he signed up for when he joined the army, but what does he know about war? The only war he has ever fought is Arthas' war, and so far as he can tell, that means he follows the leader and kills everyone in his way.

Thassarian is good at following the leader. He's gotten even better since he lost his free will.

Arthas is speaking now, but his lips don't move. They don't have to move for the Scourge to hear him. Arthas speaks in their mind, a reverberating haunting chilling sound that he cant escape _**move out get to the Sunwell slaughter any who try to stop us**_. Thassarian is half expecting him to add, and even those who don't, because ever since Northrend Arthas doesn't seem to care who he kills, as long as he is killing someone anyone everyone, and now Thassarian is thinking about his mother again, the way she screamed and begged for her life, and how he cut her down anyway, because Arthas told him to. He's panicking, oh, Light, he killed his mother he killed his mother he killed-

A feeling of calm washes over him then, and he lifts his head just enough to see Arthas flashing a slightly menacing grin. The power of his master, controlling him, easing his anxieties and causing his mind to go blank.

_Move out_ and now the army is on the move, the massive, mindless army of the dead, but they're not really dead, obviously, they're moving arent they? They exist in the space between life and death.

_Get to to the Sunwell. Slaughter any who try to stop them. _

Thassarian is good at following the leader.

…

"Do you remember that night in the clearing?" Thassarian asks. Koltira is perfectly still against his side, and his chest has stopped moving, but Death Knights don't really need to breathe anyway. The human waits for a reply, but none is coming. Not even a small grunt of acknowledgement. He counts the seconds, _one two three four five-_

"I remember," Thassarian says, because the silent space between the words are too much for him. He counts the seconds again, but this time he only gets to three before Koltira makes a humming noise. The elf rolls over, props himself up on his elbow, gazes down at his friend brother lover _whatever_ the fuck they are. His expression is guarded, but that's nothing new.

"Don't," Koltira says. The word is cold hollow final. No room for conversation here. Thassarian almost looks offended, so the elf lets out a little sigh. "What does it matter anymore, Thass? It's _over_."

What he is really saying is that he doesn't want to ruin this moment, because they're never really sure when they might get another.

Koltira resumes his previous position. Arm over Thassarian's chest, leg bent to entangle with the human's. Hand over Thassarian's heart, except there's no beat there for him to feel.

Koltira is the most beautiful thing Thassarian has ever seen.

That was the first thing he ever thought about the elf. That night in the clearing.

His orders were to slaughter everyone, and normally Thassarian was good at following orders, except that Arthas was off doing Light-knew-what and so his control was waning. And so when he saw the elf before him, Koltira's brother, not that he knew that, he faltered. He faltered because this was a person, a life, someone with a family that loved him. Just like his mother had been, and oh god he killed his mother he killed his mother he killed-

Thassarian turned his back on the elf. Let him go. Let him _live_.

It didnt matter. A second later, another member of the Scourge rose up and killed him.

Nobody was safe from the dead.

Later that night, the army retreated, regrouped, hid in the woods and waited. He wasn't sure why, exactly, because it wasn't like they needed to sleep, and it wasn't like they needed a better strategy. About the only thing he could think was that Arthas got off on knowing that all night long, all of Silvermoon would be up watching waiting for him to come and drag them from their beds and spill their blood in the streets.

Thassarian was cleaning his blades when Koltira appeared out of nowhere, springing from the black shadows.

Koltira was burning white, blindingly bright to eyes that were so accustom to the dark. Dagger in his hand, scowl on his face, staring unblinking at death itself. The most beautiful thing Thassarian had seen in as long as he can remember. Not that it was a particularly difficult task. There wasn't a lot of beauty in the Scourge.

The elf was asking him to come away with him, leave the Scourge, leave Arthas, leave this life of death behind. Thassarian wanted to say that they were moving a bit too fast for his taste, but decided that this wasn't the time for joking. Either way he was shaking his head, which was probably dangerous considering the cold steel biting at his flesh. If he wasn't careful, this elf was going to kill him.

For the first time, he wondered if he could even be killed, considering he was already fucking _dead_. He'd never thought about it before, but he recalled the sharp agony of Falric's blade tearing him apart, and he wasnt exactly eager to experience that again anytime soon.

Thassarian let him go. Or maybe Koltira let him go, since he was the one with the weapon to the human's throat. Maybe it didn't matter who let who go, because the point was that they spared each other, saved each other, let each other _live_.

But the Death Knight promised that the next time he saw the elf, he would kill him. It was the first promise he had kept in as long as he could remember.

…

"You're thinking about it," Koltira mutters, and there is both frustration and sadness in his voice when he speaks. Thassarian is expecting him to roll over again and give that pointed look, maybe even a lecture on the pointlessness of it all, because Koltira has never been much of an optimist.

Instead, what he gets is the elf pushing himself up over Thassarian's hips, straddling him, hands on either side of his head as the blonde supports himself. No words, no breaths, just the space between them growing smaller and smaller and smaller, and then closing all together as Koltira meets his lips in a kiss.

Death Knights don't feel, not really, not the warmth of a roaring fire or the chill of a biting wind. They don't really feel pain and they certainly don't feel pleasure, but somehow Thassarian can feel _this. _He could feel Koltira's mouth working against his own, tongue darting out occasionally to trace his bottom lip. He could feel a moan rising up in the back of his throat, forcing it's way out, echoing in the space between the kisses. He could feel Koltira fisting a hand into his hair, tugging at the ends of the strands, mouth moving down his neck, across his collar, his chest, and Thassarian is raising his hips to meet the other man, and Koltira is smirking like the damned tease he is, and he is pulling back, straightening up. His face is half concealed in the dark and half illuminated by the candlelight, and normally Thassarian might find this more symbolic and metaphorical, but right now he is a bit too distracted to think about it.

Koltira is being a damned tease, and it's evident in his glimmering eyes that he knows this, but Thassarian decides to point it out anyway, the words a low growl that exists in the space between playful and aggravated, and before Koltira has the chance to retort the human has grabbed his face on both sides and his dragging him down into a rough kiss. He holds the elf in place against him, and after a moment he rolls him over so that now Thassarian is on top of him, pinning him down, a dangerous look in his eyes. Death knights don't feel, not really, but they do feel the lust for blood, a constant, dull ache that never really fades, even if they've given in. Even when their runeblades are dripping blood, they're still whimpering begging screaming for moremoremoremore like a desperate whore, and sometimes it's hard to shut it out.

But Koltira isn't scared of him, because Thassarian can't really hurt him, and even if he could he certainly never would, not enough to feel it. The human brings his mouth down and latches it onto Koltira's throat, teeth nipping at the tendons, until he feels the sensitive tender weak flesh give, and crimson liquid spills forth. It rolls over his tongue in sticky, coppery waves, coats his lips, stains the elf's pale skin when Thassarian begins to trail kisses over him.

Koltira doesn't even flinch.

After that, their moves become frantic, erratic, bordering on madness. They're all hands, touching everywhere anywhere, lips crashing into each other, arms and legs tangled up in the sheets and the shades. There's no space between them now, and so they exist only together, as one. Koltira takes his nails down Thassarians's back, eliciting a low moan of pleasure from the human, who in return grinds his hips down harder against him. Koltira is arching his back, trying with desperate desperation to be as close as possible, and it's working, and his breaths are these tiny little gasps that seem to echo around them whenever Thassarian bites playfully at his elongated ear.

He can't help but think that he's happy they aren't wearing their armor. The first time, they were wearing their armor, and it was the most inconvenient thing he had ever encountered in his life, fingers that were shaking with anticipation yanking at straps, tossing plate aside with loud thuds that could have woken the dead, if they hadn't already all be mulling about the saronite fortress. Icecrown Citadel was a huge place, but Thassarian had been convinced that everyone there had heard, had known, and he honestly hadn't given a fuck about it, because he had known, a part of him had known since the first time he saw Koltira that he was different, and he had known since the moment he had stolen his life that they were bound together forever by the darkness.

Anyway, they aren't in their armor now, just regular, loose fitting pants, and it's a weird sensation because for so long their armor had felt more like a second skin. But it's easier to pull off, to _rip _off, he realizes when he hears the sudden sound of fabric tearing. Normally, Koltira would protest this, but for right now Koltira isn't protesting anything, not the tattered remains of his pants that have been tossed aside to the floor or the way that Thassarian has moved lower, lower and is licking and kissing at the skin just above his-

-oh.

A mangled cry of surprise erupts from Koltira's lungs, a pitiful gasp of pleasure and shock and want and need. As soon as he regains the ability to move, the elf props himself up on his elbows so that he can watch as Thassarian works him over, up down up down, such a perfect rhythm, interrupted only when Koltira's own impatience gets the better of him and he tries to force himself deeper into the human's mouth. He's whispering his name in between pathetic little pleas, thasspleasethasspleasedontstopthass, all strung together in a single breath that he doesn't really need to take, and yet he feels like he is suffocating under the building pressure that coils in the pit of his stomach.

Thassarian is swirling his tongue expertly around the tip, lapping him up, grazing his teeth ever so gently. He is smirking too, just barely, a look made even more terrifying by the fact that he still has Koltira's blood dried around his lips. Once upon a time, he thinks, a time when he was alive that seems to exist now only in the space between his memories, this would have been considered wrong. And while now it certainly isn't seen as exactly right, in death there are no absolute wrongs or rights, it's just another shade of grey.

Koltira has given up on trying to watch, collapsing back into the bed when it becomes too hard to hold himself up. His elegant fingers are digging into the sheets, gripping them tightly, head tipped back, eyes half-lidded as he writhes under the feeling, the most beautiful thing that Thassarian has ever seen. He brings up a hand to wrap around the base, gripping tightly, while his other arm is supporting his weight as he lays between Koltira's legs. Through his lashes and a few strands of tangled silvery hair he looks up, grinning at the way the elf's mouth hands open and he trembles a little harder each time Thassarian takes his full length into his mouth.

At that moment, Koltira lifts his head, and the pair lock eyes in a stare, and the space between their gazes is all it takes for him to let go, give in, and as the building ecstasy rushes through his veins he lets out a cry of release and finishes into Thassarian's mouth.

While the elf is still panting, still trying to compose himself from the high of the orgasm, the human is already sitting up, his legs under him as he wipes at his mouth with the sheets and then tosses it aside. He crawls up and lays down back at Koltira's side, pulling him into his chest, intent on holding him there all night because they're never really sure when they might get another. Nothing else in the world exists now, not the Scourge or the Lich King or the Ebon Blade or the damned Alliance and Horde. It's only them, existing together in this one perfect moment, in the space between right and wrong, light and dark, redemption and condemnation. Somewhere in the shades of grey lies Thassarian and Koltira, not quite wrong but certainly not right, forsaken by death and unwanted by life.

It doesn't matter, though.

They exist there together.


End file.
